Fishin' with Pappy

Fishin' has always been the national past time for us Americans, it's even older than Baseball. 'Cordin' to Pappy, there's nothin' better on earth, than wettin' a line on a purdy day. This here story's about one of those glorious days, when Pappy was always right, and the rest of humanity was crazy and didn't know what the hell they's talkin' about.

As pretty days go, this one promised to be a good'n. Bright sunshine, a slight breeze, and plenty of Gran'ma's good cookin' in a lunch basket, can't be beat in a man's book. Pappy an' me had all the gear in the truck and left early for the railroad at the foot of Gauley Mountain. Between the high limestone walls was New River Gorge, and one hell of a walk to our spot on the bottom. A big, deep hole of water, renowned for catfish.

Naturally, I carried everything but Pappy, to include all six poles, the food, 'minner' bucket, dip net, tackle box and anythin' else he thought of besides Gran'ma. Bein' as Pappy's rheumatism always showed up at such times, I got stuck as the mule again, or better say JACKASS.

Finally reachin' the bottom of hell-to-climb-back-up, we start settin' lines, right where Pappy wants 'em. When you're twelve, you don't know squat from scratch, so it goes. Anyhow, I did what I had to and settled in for coffee and biscuits. After baitin' six lines and gettin' a fire goin' , gettin' the minners (by the way, that's minnows for you city folk), fresh water, and settin' up all the gear, Pappy said I deserved a break. Damn nice of 'im, wouldn't ya say? Oh, don't get me wrong, Pappy was busy, too. It takes a long time to get your butt-comforter just right. Especially on hard rocks.

That coffee never tasted so good, when I finally got to sit down. Makes ya feel warm, like a tick in a coon-dog's ear. I got the whole two minutes, before Pappy's Zebco 33 started singin'. The line was pullin' real hard downstream, and you could tell it was a good cat. As I jumped up, Pappy hollered, "don't touch 'er, she's mine!", and started runnin' for the pole.

That's when all hell's gates opened.

Pappy tripped over the tackle box and kicked that rod in the process, right out into the current. Sank like a rock!

'Course it was my fault that the tackle box was in the way of landin' possibly the new state record catfish. It was also my fault that he stubbed his big toe, and could quite possibly need surgery to repair the damage. After all the cussin' an hollerin' was over, we sat back down to enjoy the rest of the day---of course I had one less rod than before.

Round about 9:30, Pappy sees somebody he knows, which ain't all too unusual, considerin' he never met anybody he didn't know. So, he casually walks off, leavin' me to fend for myself.

In the small matter of the two hours he was gone, I managed to catch 4 'cats', 2 bass, and a croaker. The croaker I threw back 'cause of all his teeth. Walkin' up and down the bank seemed to be real productive for a lot of things. One of the 'cats', I pulled in, weighed only 11 pounds but he was big enough to keep and fry. When Pappy got back, all he needed to see was the stringer and that done it.

He looked at me and said, "just go on to the truck, boy, and don't say a word."

We didn't talk the whole way back. When we got home, his claim to Gran'ma was that I had the "charm" and all I did for him was bring 'im bad luck. Gran'ma went up a tree at the mention of me bein' bad. She turned on him like a wicked stepmother. Pappy sure caught all kinda hell for that. After Gran'ma was done, Pappy came lookin' for me. Well, after all, it was me that caused all of the trouble with that tackle box. But hidin' never did do much good around Pappy, so I stood my ground.

Damn fool I was!

Pappy come a cussin' 'bout me bein' a trouble maker. Hell, I hadn't said nairy a word since we got home. Pappy was blue-faced and done in 'bout ten minutes. He'd explained in detail how I had just ruined his 40 years with Gran'ma, and how his fishin' would never be the same, since he'd gotten skunked by some snot-nosed kid. Said he'd never live it down.

I couldn't hold back anymore. The gut-bustin' laughin' I did was louder 'n a Baptist church at revival. I looked at Pappy an' asked, "is that what this is all about, you gettin' skunked?"

He looked out the back door and said, "what'd you think it was?"

I said, "Pappy, you didn't get skunked. You caught the biggest of the bunch...kinda."

Pappy looked real puzzled, like a raccoon tryin' to chew gum.

I said, "you didn't even notice, when we left, that we had six poles again. That big cat come offa your line that fell in. I found it along the bank, a little ways down river, and just reeled 'im in. But it was your line and you hooked 'im. I just brung 'im in for ya."

Now, you know about fish stories and all that, and this was sorta one. I did fib a little, to keep the peace, and myself in Pappy's good graces. I'm just glad I remembered that other Zebco 33 behind the seat of the truck, and Pappy's bad memory for where he leaves things.

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